From The City That Always Sweeps

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And good lord, it’s September already, what the fock. Seems to me like it was just August, and now out of nowhere we’re into the ninth month of the year? (Although, through a tad of research, I found this: As to the “Old English from Latin: the seventh (month) according to the original calendar of ancient Rome, from septem seven.” That means that September, technically, ought to be the seventh month of the year and not the ninth. Jesus H Christ, my head spinneth.

Either way you number the month of this time of year, the autumn leaves are about to fall, and for a guy like me that can only mean that the summertime is soon to crumble and about time for crying out loud, what with the heat, humidity/dewpoint, noisy racket and outdoor insects that seem to find their way inside. Can’t use it, I kid you not.

But what I look forward to this month is the peaceful return of the Oktoberfest guten-time shebangs around the town. Jawohl!

As we verstehen jah from uber dere in the Vaterland, they have canceled all Oktoberfest schtuffen die festlichkeit for the second year in a row on account of this coronavirus thing going around that, here in the Land of the Free with Purple Majesties, people living above the Mason-Dixon Line have heard something about. But here in the City that Always Sweeps and surrounding areas, we will indeed celebrate the triumph of the will to say “COVID, SCHMOVID, let the party days of accordions and beers commence.”

(Time out: What is the definition of a gentleman? A guy who knows how to play the accordion, but doesn’t. Ba-ding! [Sorry Grant K., I had to go there. I owe you one, so here it is: How do you know when a sax player is at your door? They don’t know which key to use or when to enter. Ba-ding-ding-ding!])

Speaking of canceled, if only this corona schmutz had shined around about 82-focking-years ago, ain’a? It would’ve forced the Nazis to postpone or cancel their invasion and conquerage, September 1939, by a year or two of my Poland people, and the world may be a different place today; and today, I’m all for the world being a different place than the place I’m placed upon, you betcha.

Anyways, I do look forward to the gemütlichkeit of the Oktoberfest to be bacchanaled, curiously, in September. Shouldn’t it really be called Septemberfest, for christ sakes? I guess I should not really be discombobulated by this calendar schmutz, after all, I’ve heard that a bunch of astronomers figure that the baby Jesus was actually born in June based on their crafty calculations of horizoned stars at that time when the world was flat.

Personally, I’m glad, regardless of scientific evidence in this case, that Christmas is Dec. 25 rather than sometime in focking June. Cripes, ordinarily we’d be smack-dab in the middle of festival and baseball season, and now on top of that we’ve got to go shopping for gifts? And where the fock are you going to find nice wrapping paper that time of year; although I believe that cans of bug spray would be a popular item to be found under one’s tree (oleander?) in June—certainly more practical than a winter parka, sweater or pair of mittens, ain’a?

Perhaps I digress, it’s Oktoberfest in September we got coming up, so ladies and gents, guys and gals, männer und frauen, get ready to grab and slide into your lederhosens and drindls. And this year, Oktoberfest ought to be extra festive, since German Fest on the Summerfest grounds was kiboshed again. Of course, it was not the only fest to get the heave-ho ’cause of the pandemic. We missed out on Festa Italiana, to boot.

Hey, how ’bout this, an idea I’ve ballyhooed for many a year: Next summertime, German Fest combines with Festa Italiana to form the Axis Powers Fest—the festival to last 1,000 years! Abbondanza, ain’a?

But no matter which Oktoberfest event you choose to attend, you will be required to sing the Ein Prosit beer-drinking song (about every couple, three minutes), the lyrics to which follow (so get it memorized before you go):

Ein Prosit, Ein Prosit

Der Gemütlichkeit

(repeat)

Oans, Zwoa, Drei, G’suffa!

Zicke Zacke Zicke Zacke Hoi! Hoi! Hoi!

And remember: “You must sing this song, and drink after each song. It’s the law.”

And speaking of lederhosen, remember that it’s a cultural tradition that they are not to be cleaned, and so the following little story:

So this guy from Bavaria goes to the doctor for a checkup. Doctor examines him and says that he needs the guy to give a blood sample, urine and stool sample, so further tests can be run. The Bavarian nods, removes his lederhosen and hands them to the nurse. Ba-ding-a-ding-ding!

And so in conclusion, what else is there to say but this: Go Pack! Go Brewers! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.